John Ellicombe's Temptation ... Second edition

Front matter

John Ellicombe's Temptation AUTHOR'S NOTE AFTER this story was written I had neither spirits nor energy enough to revise it, and I am indebted to my friend Mr. W. H. Wilkins for revision, re-writing in many places, and so much improvement throughout, that, by adding his name to mine as joint author, he not only does what is fair, but increases my obligation to him. JULIA B. CHETWYND. Second Edition. John Ellicombe s Temptation By THE HONBLE, MRS. HENRY CHETWYND AUTHOR OF "LIFE IN A GERMAN VILLAGE;" " SARA ;','• ETC. And W. H, WILKINS PART-AUTHOR OF " THE GREEN 'BAY TREE," ETC. LONDON BLISS, SANDS AND FOSTER CRAVEN STREET, STRAND, W.C.

Chapter I. The

fluttering of a dovecot under a sudden invasion was as nothing compared to the commotion at Silverstrand, when it was known to whom the Manor House was left. The Manor House had belonged to Mrs. Ellicombe, one of the most charming old ladies in the world ; and up to the time of her death the question of her successor had been a profound secret. No one had ever thought of John Ellicombe, who now succeeded. The place had been inherited by Mrs. Ellicombe from her father. She was known to have relations, though rather distant ones ; and it was thought singular that she should have totally ignored them, and have left the old place to her husband's nephew. True, her marriage had been very happy in a real sense. She and her husband had been one, and his people her people ; but even wedded happiness did not wholly account for so complete a departure from what was just in a character full of integrity.

No one knew anything about John Ellicombe. As a boy he had been at Silverstrand, and once, while at Cambridge, he had paid a flying visit there, and left an impression of undue gravity and a certain sternness which was not con sidered natural in a young man. John Ellicombe could not now be much more than forty, because his father's marriage was in the parish register. This much was known, everything else was conjectural. There was nothing further to be asserted about him, except that he was a lawyer. Not a ray of light could be thrown upon his character, his pursuits, his tastes, or his inclinations. The position he would take up, the way in which he would use his inheritance, for the present remained in darkness. The real loss of such a character as Mrs. Ellicombe to the village community made the conjectures very unflattering as to her heir and his qualities, but that signified little, since he was not likely to hear them.

Mrs. Ellicombe, in her youth a brilliant and sunny-tempered woman, had preserved her sweet ness of temper and her happy disposition to the very last, and dying at eighty-five, was sincerely mourned and regretted. Possessing an ample fortune, her pleasure lay in sharing it as much as she could with all those less fortunately placed than herself. She knew where fruit, flowers, or fresh eggs were needed. The sick had game and poultry ; and she had that exquisite and rare talent of bestowing things with a tact which made the gifts pleasant and the obligation never oppressive. Her beautiful grounds were open to all ; only the terrace and shrubberies near the house were kept private. From Lady Holmhurst (who was always spoken of as desperately proud and poor) down to the meanest villager, everyone loved the old lady.

As a natural consequence, there was a wide-felt anxiety as to the new proprietor. The villagers of Silverstrand were, above all things, anxious to know what line he would take about the dell. The Manor House was a charming old place ; it had picturesque gables and additions, an old court with a stone monster in the centre, fishponds, a bowling-green, and every thing that could be desired in the shape of flowers and trees and well-kept lawns. It stood rather high up in a well-wooded park, which extended up both sides of an ideal Devonshire valley ; a bustling trout-stream ran through the grounds and it was all along this enchanting stream that the dell, which was three miles in length, wound its pleasant way. The banks were full of delectable spring flowers — fragrant wild violets, wood-sorrel, anemones, and daffodils.

Sweet wood ruff scented the footpath. Even long habit and familiar association had not lessened the enjoyment of a walk in the dell to the Silverstrand villagers. If this walk were now to be closed to the public, it would be a real calamity. The further end of the dell opened on to wild moorland, and the best shooting on the Manor House estate began there, and continued until it merged into young Lord Holmhurst's woods, who upon that side was the nearest neighbour. It was an anxious time for the people of Silverstrand. After one who remembered "the poor and needy" on so many occasions besides that on which everyone is supposed to remember them in church, they might have a rich squire, who, neither in church nor upon any other occasion, would think of them at all — a sad and dire possibility.

Into this little, anxious world of village life, with a most imperfect understanding of the place he was expected to fill, and of the people with whom he was to Uve, John Ellicombe, a grave, reserved, middle-aged man, was now to come. Hitherto his life had been that of many a professional man in London. A man who does the same thing at the same moment every day of his hfe, and who has no home cares, no wife nor children to worry, bustle, or cheer him, becomes something of a machine. John EUicombe, after the manner of middle-aged bachelors, was methodical and regular, and swung, like the pendulum of a well-regulated clock, between his chambers in Lincoln's Inn and his club. His pleasures were narrowed to the successful unraveUing of an intricate law case, the digging out of an obscure precedent, or the triumphing over some legal quibble.

His affections were dormant; they had never been called out. He had no near kindred nor affinities ; he Uved to himself and for himself; he was bored by society, and never went near it. His countenance was grave, and his expression was that of a man who is suspicious and reserved ; though, in the privacy of his own room, sometimes a sense of humour touched him, and then his smile changed his face, his eyes smiled as well as his lips, and for the moment — had anyone been there to see — he was a good looking and even a pleasant looking man. All the circumstances of his life would have made his inheritance a very doubtful satisfaction to him, had it not been that, quite unexpectedly, one of those accidents happened to him which force men to look upon the future in a totally new light.

Chapter II. John Ellicombe

had been more absorbed than usual, lately, over an inquiry; some legal opinion he had advanced strongly was questioned, and he felt bound to support it. He had given himself no rest, and had not taken even the small amount of exercise he usually did. Even his luncheon hour was curtailed; he munched a sandwich whilst he was turning over page after page of stuffy parchments. The close air of his chambers in Lincoln's Inn was full of that musty smell of old binding, which is so characteristic of legal habitations where the windows are never opened. One day a singular sensation came over him. He tried to rise; the room seemed to run away from him, and he fell upon the floor. For the first time in his life he had fainted. It was not by any means a short lapse into insensibility, but an old-fashioned fainting-fit, which lasted a very long time.

When he came to himself, a doctor's unfamiliar countenance was bending over him. His face and hair were damp — not to speak of his shirt ; pungent and strange odours were around him. The window, as a rule hermetically closed, behind a horsehair sofa laden with books and papers, stood wide open, and the breeze of an early spring day was taking unheard-of liberties with his legal papers. " You are better," said the doctor, asserting it as a fact, and not suggesting it in the light of inquiry. " Yes. What is wrong ? " " I have not examined you yet. It may be dyspepsia — and it may be something else," " Call it dyspepsia." " If you like. Shall I make an examination now, and settle the question ? " " Not just now. . . . What must I do, if it be dyspepsia ? " " Go out more. Take regular exercise, and more of it ; regular meals, eat less at one time — you probably take very little luncheon and eat a very heavy dinner."

The doctor pocketed his fee, and took his leave. Mr. Ellicombe rang his bell. A pleasant -looking, round-faced man, his confidential clerk, came in and helped him to put his papers together ; he gave a few directions, and presently went out. He felt unlike himself, and was bewildered by his sensations and the strangeness of the incident. He made his way to a chemist's shop, and bought some trifling articles which he did not want. He wanted to get an unbiased opinion, yet he dreaded to ask. He then bought some salts, and asked, with indifferently assumed carelessness, " If a man has anything wrong with his heart, what ought he to do ? " " See his doctor, sir, at once." " Ah ! But supposing he has seen him, and that it is more a suspicion than a certainty ? " "Oh, well, that alters the case.

He should take pre cautions, avoid excitement, allow nothing to agitate him, keep quiet " " Thank you," said Mr. Ellicombe hurriedly, a little over whelmed by the rush of recommendations. He walked to his club, and lunched moderately. After luncheon he felt better, and went back to his chambers. The window was still open, and there remained a smell of hartshorn. Davies, his head clerk, had been to his lunch ; the papers, hurriedly put together on one side, had not been touched. The wooden chair, upon which he could swerve round and face a client, was pushed aside. The room looked altogether different, and brought his illness rather vividly before him again. He did not feel quite himself, and he sat down opposite the window, and the fresh air was pleasant to him. It was early in spring. In the large gardens of Lincoln's Inn Fields the birds were nesting, and their cheerful chirps and twittering noise carried him back, in thought, to his boyish days in the only country place he had ever lived in — Silverstrand, in Devonshire.

It was strange, afterwards, to remember that his clerk came into the room just as the mental picture of the lanes and tors he had not thought of for years had risen vividly before him, and laid a paper in front of him : " There is the death announced here of a namesake ; I believe a kinswoman of yours, sir." John Ellicombe took the paper, and read the death of Mrs. Ellicombe, of the Manor House, Silverstrand, Devon. " Poor old lady," he said presently, and laid down the paper again. " I wonder what she died of?" Davies was still standing beside him, and he suggested, " She was very old." " Yes, yes, of course." Mr. Ellicombe spoke rather shortly, and his clerk took the hint and left him. Mr. Ellicombe had very mixed feelings about this confidential clerk of his. He had a high opinion of him, for he was extremely useful to him in many ways, but he was angry with him for having married young, and annoyed that his dismal forebodings on the occasion had not come to pass.

Though everyone must allow, Mr. Ellicombe considered, that, for a man in Davies' position, to marry at twenty-four was absurd and improvident, yet it was a fact that the worthy man was as much delighted with his superfluous little boys as if they had been heirs to millions. If he received the smallest encouragement from his chief, Davies would dwell with rapture on his wife and his "little chaps," and dilate upon the happiness he had in his house, in a manner singularly strange, Mr. Ellicombe thought, for a man of such small means. Upon one occasion Mr. Ellicombe had been obliged, by some urgent business matter, to seek his clerk in his private residence, a suburban villa in miniature. He was distressed, and surprised, to find flowers in the tiny sitting-room. Flowers ! What an extravagance ; he never bought flowers ; they were almost as unnecessary as the three baby boys !

He went so far as to remonstrate upon this extravagance ; but he regretted having done so immediately. Davies, reddening, as he always did under the influence of any sudden emotion, showed spirit, and promptly resented the imputation. " My wife is never idle one single moment," he said, somewhat irrelevantly; "she is busy from morning to night; and she has the sweetest temper in the world. She came from the country, and loves flowers. A sixpenny bunch is not much for me to give her now and again. Besides, it really is entirely my concern." Mr. Ellicombe apologised on the spot, and he did not despise his clerk's weakness quite so much after this, but he felt extremely sorry for him. There is a good deal of pity wasted in this world. Left alone, Mr. EUicombe tried to settle down to his work for the afternoon, but in vain.

His train of thought again ran in the direction of the old days at Silverstrand when he was a lad, the days when he used to fish, and ride, and shoot, and enjoy himself generally. He was astonished to find how sorry he was that he had no chance of seeing that pretty place again. There was also a child .... All at once, the dreary look of the room he was in, and the dinginess of his surroundings, came home to him. The sun's rays, streaming in, were full of that mysterious life and those particles of dust dancing up and down in bewilderino complexity, which we see without consideration, as we do all familiar things ; the thick coating of grime, lying upon unused and forgotten books of reference and old calendars, was terribly 'conspicuous ; the shabby old bindings of the books the well-worn corner of the horsehair-covered sofa — all these things took a new and depressing aspect.

The old Manor House at Silverstrand, the deep-seated windows on the wide oak staircase, filled with quaint china and big bowls of sweet briar, mignonette, and sweet peas, came to his memory ; the scent of flowers seemed to smite upon his sense ; a child, a far-off little cousin of Mrs. Ellicombe's — of whom he had been passionately fond — was pursuing him with a basket, and making him encounter the sweetbriar thorns in her service ; all these things, now for ever beyond his reach, rose before him out of the dim past. The chords of his memory vibrated ; the dear, dead days of long ago came back to him .... Ah ! this would not do. With an effort, he rose and called Mr. Davies. He told him that he did not feel quite the thing, and would go home and rest. " Can you get on without me for a day or two ?

I shall run down to Brighton, and get a breath of sea air. If I am wanted, telegraph to the Bedford Hotel." " Very weU, sir." "And whilst I am away — you know how to put these papers on one side so as to be handy — have the place cleaned, and the windows seen to at once." " Certainly ; you may remember I have often suggested — " " Yes, yes. Well, get it done now." John Ellicombe strolled to his club. He was such a creature of habit, that he felt quite out of his element in being there at the wrong time of day ; he was uncomfortably conscious that inquiring glances were cast in his direction. The next morning he went down to Brighton, where no one knew him, or felt curious about him. He was there two days, and he did not enjoy himself. The hedonism of London super-mare was not in harmony with his somewhat mis anthropic mood.

He felt out of it. The gay crowd made the lonely man lonelier still. His thoughts turned in upon himself. In his own mind, he was quite convinced that he had heart complaint, and he did his best to face this calamity. But he was alone. He told himself what a good thing it was that he had no one to regret him — no wife, child, brother, or sister, to mourn him. It was such a good thing, but it was curious how it depressed him. He had no human being to whom he could turn for sympathy, not a soul to whom he could talk ; no one intimate enough to give him comfort or advice, no second self to turn to ; and, brooding over it all in the darkness of the night, he magnified it. As he lay in the silence, the beating of his heart became terribly loud, and frightened him. He longed for some one to whom he might unbend, and throw off his burden.

That absurd wife of Davies, with her silly baby-face, and reprehen sible love of flowers — he supposed if Davies had heart complaint she would weep and bemoan him, and, probably, behave in an altogether foolish manner. But she would be there to comfort him. He spent two miserable nights. The sound of the sea was irritating to him. The crowd on the cliff annoyed him. Even the people in the hotel seemed to get needlessly in his way. Better the cobwebs and dirt, the smell of books, and incessant occupation, than all this iodine and idleness, which left his mind vacant and a prey to morbid reflections. He would go back to London at once.

Chapter III. John Ellicombe

had seated himself in the railway J carriage at the Brighton terminus, when a breathless boots (making the very most of his breathlessness) arrived just as the train was starting. "Telegram, sir. Thank you, sir." And the train steamed off. He opened the telegram leisurely ; some question from Davies which he could not answer in person, probably, he thought. The telegram was from Davies, but of a far more important nature than he expected. " Hope you will return at once. Good news. You are heir to Mrs. Ellicombe." John Ellicombe read the telegram carefully two or three times, and then put it into his pocket very quietly. The three men in his compartment saw only a grave man who read and re-read the flimsy paper in his hand. They had no idea of the change in his life told him in those few words.

Mrs. Ellicombe's heir ! That meant Silverstrand, the Manor House, the dell, and all else. How strange it was ! He forgot to listen to the beating of his heart as he called a hansom, and drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields. He was sur prised, a little excited, but not much elated. The news did not come as it might have done to many others — as a relief from the pinch of insufficient means. John Ellicombe had enough for himself, and he had always told himself that others had no claim upon him. Of the two, when they met, Davies was much the more delighted, apparently. But, in his heart, Mr. Ellicombe knew that he had grieved over the probability of never seeing Silverstrand again, and that the thought that the old place was his made the news one of intense satisfaction to him. Davies had drawn up a programme in accordance with Mrs. Ellicombe's wishes as to her funeral, and, with the assistance of the deceased lady's old and trusted man of business, had got things a little in order for Mr. Ellicombe's inspection.

John Ellicombe approved of everything with one exception. " I am not well enough to go to the funeral myself, Davies ; you must represent me. I will wind up here as well as I can, and you can have things ready for me. I will run down to Silverstrand in a few days." " And shall I wait till you come ? " " Certainly. You know pretty well what to do." Then they went into details, and matters were arranged with celerity. Mr. Davies left for Devonshire next morning, and it may be confidently stated, no happier man sat behind the " Flying Dutchman " as it rushed down towards Exeter than he. In the ordinary course of events, he was in the habit of taking his holiday in the autumn cheaply, and under all the restrictions of encumbrances, whom he did not acknowledge as encumbrances; but to go flying down at another person's expense at the springtime of the year, to be going such a distance, and to such a beautiful country, was like a fairy tale.

" If only my little woman and the boys were with me," thought he, as he flew past the orchards, gay with blossom, the fresh verdure of the pastures and hedgerows, and the exquisite young ferns with new but partially uncurled fronds. In his pocket was a rather indifferent sandwich, somewhat spoiled by the assiduous attention of his little boys, who wanted "to make it flat for father's pocket." The last parting present of the youngest boy, a cherished bull's-eye of a distinctly sticky nature, might have been objected to by some fathers, but Samuel Davies saw in it a loving act ; and, while he threw the bull's-eye out of the carriage window, his heart was soft towards the giver. He was full of that delight in nature's youth which a residence in town intensifies. The wonderful, subtle sense of spring tingled in his veins, and filled him with unconscious vigour and happiness.

As soon as he reached his journey's end, and arrived at Silverstrand, he set to work with zeal. His habits and methodical training stood him in good stead. AVhen the funeral was over, and the last melancholy office carried out, he began to prepare the Manor House for its new master. The sunniest rooms were arranged for Mr. Ellicombe. Those of the servants who wished to remain were taken on by the month, and by the time Mr. Ellicombe arrived, the following week, he found everything in good working order. Mr. Davies, not having any clue to Mr. Ellicombe's depression, was lost in surprise when he saw his dejected appearance and slow movements. He did his utmost to cheer him ; but if a man once allows himself to dwell entirely upon himself, and thinks of nothing but an ailment (real or imaginary), there is very little happiness within his reach.

Convinced that he had heart complaint, John Elli combe thought of himself as a doomed man. When Davies spoke of the future, Mr. Ellicombe was listening for the heart-beats he considered typical of his malady ; when he talked of the fishing, or shooting, or riding, of any active pursuit, the same haunting fear pursued him. He was afraid of the mildest exercise. How, therefore, could he discuss these most impossible pleasures ? Moreover, putting this upon one side, a man unexpectedly released from routine of any kind, misses that routine, and is not really happy without it for a very long time, not until he fills his life again. The habits of a lifetime are not easily changed in middle age. To be obliged to do something at the same moment every day becomes second nature, and, at first, it is a doubtful pleasure when the necessity to do B so has gone.

Liberty without any sort of restraint is ideally sweet, especially when moments of great pressure occur; but the taste for liberty has to be cultivated, it does not come suddenly to a man who has never been unduly pressed. We largely make our own lives, or we mar them. Until now John EUicombe had prided himself upon his indif ference to things outside his narrow world. He mistook this selfish indifference for superiority. The glow of happiness, caused by being able to give others happiness, the satisfaction of lightening a care, or doing a kindness, were emotions unknown to him. His aims were low, his thoughts centred entirely on self. No more striking contrast could be found than that between the new lord of the manor of Silver strand, and the large-hearted, large-minded woman he had succeeded so unexpectedly.

In his present mood John Ellicombe considered his confidential man of business a bore, and a very ridiculous bore. What could be more absurd than the way in which Davies went into raptures over every little anecdote related by his wife in her daily letter, his enjoyment of every detail of his home life, his outbursts of satisfaction, the very way he shewed his enjoyment of country life, his delight over the wild flowers, and his parcel -post extravagance in de spatching them home, his overflowing good humour — all these jarred upon Mr. Ellicombe. But he could hardly say to this inoffensive little man, "You are too happy, and you look it. It offends me ! " Moreover, Davies saved him endless trouble. It is a well-known fact that if a man be rich he is con sidered in the light of a person specially placed by Providence to distribute his wealth according to the wishes and fads of his neighbours.

Mr. Ellicombe was not even now a very rich man, as wealth goes in these days of mining millionaires, merchant princes, cotton lords, and brewery peers, but he was credited with wealth, and the mere reading of the begging - letters, the appeals, the things he was told to do and warned against doing, formed a serious item in the day's work. v His position in the county had its responsibilities. As he was a lawyer, who so fit as he to be on the magistrates' bench ? He was pointed out as the man wanted as chairman of parochial or county meetings, local boards, school boards, and so forth. He was bewildered to find the amount of work he was expected to take up. He had no inclination for labour of this kind — unremunerative labour — and declined it promptly, through Mr. Davies. His views on religion, on politics, on everything, were inquired into with pertinacity.

Mr. Davies answered all these letters. He also answered those addressed to the new squire by every villager who had an opinion on any subject under the sun. Undoubtedly, he was of great use to him. But when the two men were thrown so much together, and were dependent upon each other's society, it would have re quired a denser man than honest Samuel Davies not to have seen that, in many ways, he was not congenial to Mr. Ellicombe, and it vexed him. It never occurred to him that his chief was ill, and that the outcome of his ill-health was irritability. In his anxiety to put things right, he brought an avalanche upon himself he little expected. " I am afraid that I bore you with this talk about my little boys," he said, apologetically, one morning at breakfast. " I have no right to trouble you about these things."

"Every man has a right to be a nuisance if he please," said Mr. Ellicombe, briefly. " I confess, when I hear you babbling about your boys, I wonder if you ever think of the other side of the question." "What side do you mean?" asked the fond parent, his round face slightly longer than usual. " Well, when you talk of your boys, of their sharpness, and cleverness, good temper, and heaven knows what besides, you evidently expect them to turn out miracles of goodness, and a credit to everyone belonging to them. How do you know that these boys of yours may not turn out rogues ? " " God forbid ! " exclaimed Davies, more hurt than Mr. Ellicombe could imagine, and his round eyes staring with consternation. " Look at the history of criminals," went on his host, sourly. He had theories on the subject of heredity and environment, not the generally received ones.

" I suppose they, most of them, had a promising infancy." " Oh, no ! In almost all cases, these men were brutally treated when young ; when they leave school, who helps them? They often drift into crime, because they have not been able to get honest work. In nine cases out of ten, what chance have they ever had ?" With a wave of his hand, Mr. Ellicombe dismissed the question. " Well, it does not matter," he said, indifferently. " It matters much to me. Why should my boys become criminals ? They have the influence of a good home and an unselfish mother. I do not believe that their early training will be thrown away." He was speaking with repressed indignation, and the argument was getting heated, when the respectable butler appeared upon the scene, with a note for Mr. Ellicombe. Davies left the room. He felt greatly annoyed. Of course, Mr. Ellicombe did not know his little boys. That was his one excuse, but the words had wounded him keenly.